


To the Beat of My Soul

by Ellie603



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon Major Character Non-Death, During Canon, Early Relationship, Extended Staircase Scene, First Kiss, Fix-It, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, Loss, M/M, Passionate Handshakes, Pre-Canon, Reunion, Soulmates, intense hugging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29725479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellie603/pseuds/Ellie603
Summary: Curt Mega’s first solo mission should be an easy one – sneak in, get some info, sneak out - nothing to it. He just needs to ignore the regular pulsing in his chest as his soul searches for its other half, as though anyone would ever find their soulmate in an abandoned warehouse in Russia. But Curt didn’t count on a certain British spy with a rusty Russian accent and deep brown eyes who just might change everything.Every person has a rhythmic beating at the center of their chest, next to their heart, that lets them know when they’re physically close to their soulmate.
Relationships: Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega
Comments: 10
Kudos: 23





	1. Signal Acquired

**Author's Note:**

> Last week, on a whim, I watched Spies Are Forever for the first time, knowing literally nothing about it except who was in the cast, and so I was entirely unprepared for the tragic love story in what I had assumed would be just a fun spy comedy. So, naturally, I settled in for some fic reading to make myself feel better afterward, and in the process, I found myself mentally putting together my own AU. So here we are!
> 
> All of this is written, so updates will be quick.
> 
> I hope you all like it! Enjoy!

Curt cracked his knuckles as he exited Cynthia’s office, his boss’s warnings against screwing up leaving his mind as soon as left her line of sight. He was too excited.

His first solo mission! After a couple years of training and a few low-level partnered missions with more experienced agents, he was finally being let out into the field by himself, even with Cynthia’s apparent reservations about him which she had listed at length during their last conversation. Curt had rolled his eyes. He was a good spy; everyone at the agency knew it. He just needed a chance to really prove himself to Cynthia, and here was the opportunity.

Regrettably, the operation would not be entirely his - he would initially be working with an embedded MI6 agent to foil an upcoming Soviet arms deal – but as he was the only US operative involved, at least for the first stage of the plan, Curt counted the mission as his own. Regardless of what the as yet unknown Brit had to say about it later, Curt was calling the shots on this one by himself.

An hour later, outfitted in new gadgets from the research and development team and a map of the facility he was supposed to break into burned into his brain, Curt stared resolutely out the side of a cargo plane, ready to get to work. His heart pounded just a little faster than normal, but just to the right of his heart, the regular pulsing in his chest that had been his constant companion since before he could remember remained just as steady as it always had. Even as Curt’s mind focused on his mission – the location of the warehouse, the number of guards, how to rendezvous with the MI6 agent – his soul was searching for its other half.

* * *

Everyone had a beating right at the center of their chest, next to their heart, completely separate from any physical functions of the body. It left no sign, no pulse that anyone outside could take like a heartbeat did, but everyone could always feel their own inside themselves.

Curt had learned this as a child, though he couldn’t have said whether he’d first heard it from his mother or a teacher or friends. He just knew that it was how people found their soulmates, like a homing beacon on a plane directing the pilot back to the aircraft carrier (an analogy popular in both romance novels and army propaganda of his teenage years). Someday when he found his soulmate he’d know from the pulsing in his chest.

He wasn’t quite clear on how since none of his friends who’d found soulmates had been able to adequately describe it, but it was clear to Curt that whatever happened he would know for sure right away. If the pulsing changed speed at all, that would likely be enough – unlike his heartbeat which sped up with the adrenalin of training or slowed with sleep, the pulsing in Curt’s soul never wavered. The homing beacon in his chest was always broadcasting, never ceasing its lookout for Curt’s soulmate.

Curt wasn’t much of a romantic, but he’d loved the image of two souls reaching out toward one another from the time he was a child, and he never quite grew out of the idea. Someday, perhaps, he would find a guy (he was nearly 25 now and knew, despite his mother’s plans and the norms of society, that his soulmate would be male) and that would be that. More likely, of course, given Curt’s profession, he would never find his soulmate at all, dying heroically in an explosion as he saved the world one more time, the pulsing in his chest finally ceasing in time with his heart. Curt appreciated the drama in the image.

Despite his soul’s unwavering dedication to its own priorities, Curt was a spy, and that was all he cared about.

* * *

Especially as the plane landed on an abandoned airstrip, leaving Curt to disappear into the twilight, stealthily, silently. Entirely like a proper spy.

He found his target building easily enough, abandoned warehouse in a bombed-out district – a cliché certainly, but it felt fitting for his first real spy mission.

His entry point was a window on the back end that, according to his briefing, had been left open by the British agent on the inside. All Curt had to do tonight was some reconnaissance for a larger operation that would interrupt an arms deal taking place later in the week, most importantly retrieving some information from the inside agent.

Shutting down the arms deal would be the hard part; this was child’s play.

But then Curt took one step out from his cover across the street from the warehouse, and he froze.

The pulsing in his chest, the constant regular beating that he knew better than any feeling in the world, had sped up. Just the smallest degree, the breath of a beat, but it had changed. For the first time in his nearly 25 years of life, something was different.

“Right now? Are you fucking kidding me?” Curt grumbled to himself, trying to tamp down his excitement. He needed to focus and, regardless of what his soul wanted, he had no time to go off searching for some unknown soulmate. It wasn’t like there was anyone around here anyway, just the bad guys Curt was here to sabotage, and Curt would be damned if his soulmate ended up being some Russian bastard.

Curt shook his head and returned to the mission, carefully cutting across the road, trying to ignore that the pulsing in his chest increased with every step.

He found the window quickly, propped open enough for him to slide through and carefully out of the line of sight of the single guard that Curt had noted in his survey of the building.

He crept silently through a maze of old machinery and towers of packing crates, sticking to the shadows and finally finding a near-invisible spot where he could see and hear the insurgents without being seen himself. He counted 15 men, aside from the guard outside, one of them the MI6 agent, though Curt didn’t know which.

One man caught Curt’s eye. He had a cap pulled down deeply over his face, as he casually leaned back against a crate, but something about the way he carried himself told Curt he was far more than the run-of-the-mill muscle the rest of the crowd seemed to be.

The pulsing in Curt’s chest sped up a little more.

Within fifteen minutes, Curt’s listening had filled in the gaps in his agency’s information about the arms deal, and all that was left was the MI6 agent who Curt was increasingly convinced was the man with the cap, especially after Curt heard him speak some Russian with an accent that Curt felt could definitely use some work.

But before Curt could make any plans for how to contact the other agent, shots broke out on the other end of the warehouse and the outside guard came racing inside calling for backup to deal with some rival gang.

All the men were on their feet quickly, but in the confusion one broke away from the rest.

Curt barely noticed; it was hard to focus on anything else besides the pulses in Curt’s chest.

They were closer together than they have ever been and were now accompanied by a burning feeling inside him. It was a comfortable, steadying sort of warmth rather than anything painful, but Curt found himself almost unable to focus until he was suddenly face-to-face with the low-capped man, cap now out of his face revealing a set of blazing dark eyes, intense but with an edge of awe to them that Curt well understood.

Curt’s chest exploded inside of him, and he saw the other man clutch his own chest at the same moment.

“How’s that for timing?” Curt managed with a stuttering breath.

The other man smiled widely back at him, amused and maybe even entranced by Curt. “Never had worse,” came the man’s reply, his accent – British and not Russian now – coming through in just those words. “Some other day then, love.” He shook his head regretfully and held out a notebook to Curt. “Until we meet again.”

Curt’s fingers brushed the other man’s as he took the notebook, sending heat immediately up his arm to the center of his chest. “Soon. I hope.”

The other man flashed him a grin and nodded before he disappeared back to into the fray, leaving Curt to exit the way he’d come, his hand still tingling as the beating in his chest gradually slowed.

Curt was streets away before he realized he’d never even gotten the other agent’s name.

His soulmate’s name.

The info Curt had gotten during his trip into the warehouse was good, and the inter-agency takedown of the arms deal two days later went off without a hitch. Yes, Curt had made the executive decision to blow up a building despite not having a directive to do so, but there were almost certainly more weapons hidden in the storage area he’d passed on his way in, and they didn’t have the time to look around. Even though he knew Cynthia would chew him out for it later, Curt’s only actual regret about the mission was that the MI6 team that had joined them for the mission did not include Curt’s soulmate with his flashing eyes and easy smile. Curt gathered he’d been left behind to tie up some loose ends with his gang before extraction.

Curt still hadn’t managed to catch his name.

As expected, Cynthia did give Curt hell for blowing up the facility, her criticisms extending past Curt to all the other members of the team, her voice only becoming friendlier when she mentioned a name Curt had never heard before.

“At least you had Owen Carvour over there helping out,” Cynthia said with something closer to a smile than Curt had ever seen on her face. “Now _there’s_ a spy who knows what he’s doing.”

“Um, who?”

Cynthia stared at him incredulously. “Jesus, are you good for anything, Mega? Owen Carvour, the MI6 agent who you got all the intel from,” she said with the air of a very exasperated adult explaining something to a particularly petulant child. “The one who infiltrated the cell you guys took down.”

That was his name. Owen Carvour. His soulmate, Owen Carvour.

“We never had time for introductions,” Curt managed.

Cynthia rolled her eyes. “Typical. Well, he’s the best damn spy in MI6, or he will be at any rate. He’s young, like you, only he has _tons_ of potential.”

Curt ignored Cynthia’s pointed jab at him, his thoughts drifting away to the pulsing in his chest and memories of a warmth that no amount of sunlight could replicate.

His mind wandered to Owen often after that. He thought about what Owen would be like outside of Cynthia’s praises and the few non-redacted lines in his file in the archives that gave little more than his name, date of birth, and the agency he worked for. He thought about how nice it would be to see each other again and finally have a conversation. He thought about how lovely Owen’s eyes had looked even in the darkness of the Russian warehouse.

He wondered if Owen thought about Curt as much as Curt thought about him.

And the pulsing in his chest continued undaunted, still searching for Owen, reminding Curt that he had found Owen once and needed, desperately, to find him again.

* * *

Weeks passed, then months. Curt’s missions primarily kept him stateside, but he had a few trips overseas, usually alone. No more explosions, though Cynthia found plenty of other things to criticize.

Eventually Curt found himself in route to yet another Eastern European weapons facility – this was already Curt’s third and he’d only been running solo missions for a couple months. Cynthia had cautioned him in the briefing that there might be agents from other countries around that they didn’t know about since the US was, at that precise moment, not in the best relationship with anyone, so he better not make things worse by going in shooting and taking out people who worked for their allies.

“If you blow up this thing, so help me God Mega I will murder you myself,” were Cynthia’s final words to him.

Curt had smirked in reply and reassured her that he would be perfectly careful. Cynthia hadn’t seemed convinced.

Upon arrival, Curt found the building apparently unguarded, a sure sign that something was amiss. Either their intel about the building had been wrong, or else someone was already here.

But as soon as Curt stepped inside, he knew it was the latter.

The beating in his chest sped up. It wasn’t just anyone here. It was Owen.

Curt’s eyes were drawn immediately across the building to the entrance at the far end where he found Owen staring right back at him.

Owen flashed him a grin and then inclined his head at Curt to move along to a hallway, taking out the men at his end of the facility while Owen dealt with the other side.

They fell in sync with one another immediately, each man dealing with his own perimeter wordlessly as they moved closer to one another, Curt knowing his exact proximity to Owen at all times from the beating in his chest.

When they were so close to each other that the beats in Curt’s chest had turned into a rapid staccato of the fastest tempo, the two men were ambushed by a group of insurgents. But the battle was quick; the group of six men was no match for two spies as well-trained as Curt and Owen.

“The weapons files should be in the office upstairs if I’m right,” Owen said to Curt as soon as the last man was down.

“And we’re certain that you’re right?” Curt quipped back.

Owen flashed a grin at him. “I’m very rarely wrong.”

“But there’s a chance,” Curt goaded him with a smirk, though he still immediately followed the other spy up the rickety metal staircase, Curt covering for Owen when a shot rang out from the facility floor – the shooter down almost as soon as his shot was taken – and Owen doing the same for Curt when they made it up to the upstairs corridor, even as he rolled his eyes.

Owen had been right about the files. He grabbed them quickly while Curt watched the door, dispatching two enemy targets easily before the pair moved further up the hallway, confirming a minute later that they were alone. Out a thin window Curt caught sight of a few men fleeing the building.

“We should get out before they come back,” Owen commented from beside him.

Curt nodded, but a plan was already forming in his mind. “Or we could take out the whole facility. Not give them anywhere to come back to.”

Owen raised his eyebrows at him. “Going rogue already? My, I hadn’t quite expected that.”

“You know it’s the best option.”

Owen paused for a moment and then nodded, an almost mischievous grin on his face. “I can already tell I’m in such trouble with you, Curt Mega.”

Curt stopped fishing explosive charges out of his belt and stared at Owen. “You know my name?”

Owen flashed him that brilliant smile at full force. “What kind of person would I be if I didn’t know my own soulmate’s name?”

Curt inhaled sharply. It was the first time either of them had said it out loud. “Soulmate,” Curt repeated, taking a step toward Owen.

“Though I suppose we’ve never been formally introduced,” Owen continued, stepping toward Curt himself. “Owen Carvour, MI6.” He extended his hand.

Curt took it, barely stifling a gasp at the heat that ran up his arm into his chest at the contact. “Agent Curt Mega, American Secret Service. Good to finally meet you.”

Owen’s eyes sparkled back at him. “Likewise.”

Curt finally forced himself to drop Owen’s hand to grab a few charges from his belt. “Ten minutes?”

Owen nodded and took them, back to business, though his eyes were still filled with a warmth that Curt was already dying to see up close again.

The pair made it out of the building with time to spare and were already blocks away before the bombs started going off. They crept away silently, hiding in shadows, keeping their eyes out for the men who had escaped the facility.

When they’d determined for certain that they weren’t being followed, they allowed themselves to let their guard down a bit, Curt turning to his soulmate with a satisfied smirk that Owen returned immediately.

“Cynthia’s probably going to have my head for this,” Curt commented ruefully even in his excitement at their success. He knew it was the right call, but his boss _had_ threatened him with murder before he’d left for this exact thing.

Owen laughed. “I’ll throw in a good word for you, if you’d like. You’re really an excellent spy, Curt.”

Curt smiled back at Owen. “So are you.”

Owen glanced around the dark street. “How long do you have until extraction?”

Curt shrugged and glanced at his watch. “Couple hours, I think. I should check in, but I can put it off for a bit. You?”

“Not until tomorrow, I was here for another mission before so I already have a place to camp out. Would you want to come back and talk, finally?” Owen, who’d so far always seemed suave and self-assured, suddenly looked hesitant.

But Curt nodded back eagerly. “Please.”

Owen’s face broke into a relieved grin, and he gestured for Curt to follow him down a dark alleyway.

Finally coming down from the adrenalin high of the past hour, Curt allowed himself to feel the pulsing inside his chest deeply for the first time. The beats were so close together they were almost overlapping, and when Owen’s hand brushed against his as they walked toward Owen’s hideout, Curt felt that same electric jolt of warmth from earlier spread through his body. A small smile from Owen told Curt he felt the same.

Owen led Curt into a small flat just on the edge of a town. Curt could see movement in market stalls at the far end of the street through the window, but Owen closed the curtains, leaving the two men alone, dimly lit under a single light bulb.

“So I take it this was as much a surprise to you as it was to me,” Curt began after a moment, gesturing between the two of them.

Owen laughed. “I certainly never expected to find my soulmate in a Russian warehouse, I can say that much.” He paused for a moment. “But, all things considered, I’m glad it’s you.”

Curt blinked at him. “Really? _Me,_ of all people?”

Owen shrugged. “You’re very quick on your feet, Mega. I admire that. And you’re easy on the eyes, if I may be so bold.”

Curt flushed at the compliment. “Yeah, you too,” he added quietly, not quite brave enough to match Owen’s gaze. “All of it. I’d never really met anyone I wanted to be my soulmate before, but I certainly could do worse than MI6’s great Owen Carvour.” He glanced up to flash a grin at Owen who smiled almost shyly back himself.

“But we don’t know much about each other, do we?” Curt commented then, frowning slightly. “Your file didn’t tell me all that much.”

“You looked me up, Mega?” Owen replied, his eyes glinting with amusement. “I don’t know whether to be offended or flattered.”

Curt rolled his eyes. “All I had to go from was Cynthia’s rapturous praises of your skillset. She likes you so much more than she likes me. How’d you even meet anyway?”

Owen, still grinning, launched into a story of a mission he’d gone on a couple years ago under Cynthia’s direction where he’d been the only agent to follow orders, the only one to get out unscathed, and subsequently the only agent to gain Cynthia’s approval.

Curt replied with his own tails of training missions and his last couple months working solo, making Owen laugh at his close calls and angry reports from superiors, but Curt could see that the other man was impressed with him too.

Curt was grateful for that, because Owen’s stories were even more impressive than his own. Owen had been a proper agent longer than Curt, and he was more by the book than Curt had ever been. Good at improvising, but rarely disobeying orders: the perfect agent on paper.

Of course, it had taken very little persuasion for Owen to join in with his plan to blow up the arms facility today, so Owen clearly wasn’t averse to a little rule breaking now and again, but, even still, Curt was going to have to work a little harder if he wanted to catch up to his soulmate.

They each spoke little about their families, Curt mentioning his mother only in passing, and Owen only referring to an aunt and uncle who it seemed he’d spent a lot of time with as a teenager. Such was the life of a spy – few connections. To be a spy was to be alone.

Except now maybe Curt wasn’t alone anymore.

Curt’s communicator started beeping violently, interrupting Curt’s childhood tales of being a boy scout that Owen seemed to find incredibly amusing.

“Oh shit, Cynthia’s gonna kill me.” Curt stood up. “I should go. Extraction’s soon, and I skipped check in. What was I thinking?”

“Maybe that it could be a while before we get to see each other again, and we had to take advantage?” Owen suggested, standing up too, his smile sad now.

Curt nodded. “Yeah. Yeah exactly.”

Owen held out his hand. “Until the next time, Agent Mega.”

Curt took it with a nod. “Agent Carvour.”

Their grips, firm at first, softened into almost a caress as Curt’s chest flooded with warmth.

“I’ll miss that for sure,” Curt said regretfully, glancing down at their interlocked hands.

Owen’s eyes seemed thoughtful for a moment. “Can I try something? Just quickly before you go.”

Curt nodded hesitantly, not knowing what Owen was planning.

Not letting their hands separate, Owen leaned in toward Curt who felt himself pulled in almost magnetically, his eyes fluttering closed as Owen’s lips met his.

Fireworks shot off in Curt’s head, his lips burning brilliantly at the contact. It was brief, oh so brief, but perfect in every possible way. He felt deeply every point of connection between him and Owen and longed for more. This was what a kiss was meant to be. This was what it was like to have a soulmate.

Owen pulled back then, a look of relief and awe on his face. “Thank you, Curt.”

Curt shook his head. “Thank _you_.” He reluctantly let go of Owen’s hand. “Soon, okay? I’ll see you soon.”

Owen nodded back.

It was an empty gesture; neither of them had any way of controlling if they would ever work together again, let alone whether it would happen sooner rather than later, but just the reassurance that it was what they both wanted was enough.

With one look back, Curt was gone, calling into base to get an earful from Cynthia filled with death threats and expletives that Curt had never heard before, but Curt’s head was far away.

Owen Carvour, his _soulmate,_ had kissed him, and someday – someday soon God dammit – he would do it again.

* * *

The next time was different.

Curt was undercover as an attendee at a formal cocktail party at the home of a Parisian aristocrat, a party attended by more than a few shady figures that the agency needed to keep tabs on. One man in particular was supposed to be in possession of some dangerous state secrets that he was planning on passing along during the party. Curt needed to intercept them as covertly as possible.

But as he stood next to the hors d’oeuvres table chatting amicably with a pair of socialites who were undoubtedly not the least bit involved in any illegal activity, the pulsing in Curt’s chest sped up and Curt had to push back a grin as he looked past his companions to see the man who’d been in his thoughts constantly for the last month since they’d seen each other.

Curt had never seen Owen dressed up before, only his undercover Russian laborer getup and his dark and unassuming work clothes. But Owen certainly could pull off a suit jacket and bowtie. His hair was perfectly coifed and the jovial laughter Curt could almost hear him throw at the couple he was talking made him look shockingly handsome. But the wide, delighted smile that came to his face when he caught Curt’s eye was nothing short of breathtaking.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ve just seen a friend. Glad to meet you both,” Curt made his apologies to his new acquaintances and was halfway across the room almost before he’d finished speaking.

Owen, too, had relieved himself of his entourage by the time Curt and Owen fell together in a more secluded part of the foyer.

“It really was soon, wasn’t it, old boy?” Owen said beaming. “I expect we’re here for the same reason. I’d heard the target had some sensitive information about the Americans as well. Shall we team up?”

Curt was still distracted by Owen, plus the feeling in his chest, but he managed a nod and a grin. “Worked out well last time.” He held his hand out for Owen to shake, outwardly a greeting between two old friends, though for Curt it was entirely an excuse to touch Owen.

Owen’s eyes twinkled back at him, clearly understanding Curt’s intentions as he pressed their palms together just a little too tightly.

“I must say, you clean up very well, Owen Carvour,” Curt added in a low voice as he leaned in just a hair.

Owen’s fingers grazed Curt’s wrist as they separated, causing Curt to shiver just for a moment. “If I wasn’t a damn good spy, I’d find it very easy to be distracted by you myself,” Owen replied quickly before returning to their previous distance from each other, nothing on his face giving any hint of what he’d just said, save for a glint in his eyes that Curt only recognized because he’d been thinking about Owen’s eyes almost constantly since he’d first seen them months ago.

“Noted,” Curt replied with a smirk of his own.

And then it was down to business.

With both of them working, they found their target easily, determined where he was keeping the information, and acquired it with little fanfare. Owen was excellent at improvisation, and Curt had been a well-practiced pick-pocket since he was a child, a fact which entertained Owen to no end when Curt mentioned it to him as they slipped out of the party an hour later, unnoticed by anyone.

Curt called in to report to Cynthia as soon as he could manage, having learned his lesson from the last time he was in Owen’s company.

“So you actually followed orders this time, Mega?” came Cynthia’s sharp and accusatory voice.

“Down to the letter, love,” Owen replied before Curt could. “Perfect mission, all told.”

“Could that be Owen Carvour?’ Cynthia’s tone was immediately more accommodating, even friendly. “No wonder it was a perfect mission with you there to supervise.”

Curt rolled his eyes but still let his shoulder drift against Owen’s with a quiet affection.

“Shared credit, Cynthia. Mega and I work well together.” He tossed Curt a wink.

Cynthia sighed exasperatedly, but she didn’t argue. “Find a place to stay and be out of there tomorrow morning, Mega. Lovely to hear from you as always, Owen.” The line went dead with Cynthia’s last glowing words to Curt’s British counterpart.

“How come you get to be Owen, but I’m just ‘Mega?’” Curt complained, shaking his head. “But that was the nicest debrief I’ve ever had, thanks for that.” He flashed Owen a smile.

Owen laughed and then paused as they made it to a main road. “I have a hotel room, if you need somewhere to stay tonight.” His words were casual, but Curt could hear the uncertainty in his voice.

Curt understood it. They still didn’t really know each other all that well, and, more than that, they had to be careful. Jobs, reputations, their entire lives could come crashing down around them if they played any of this wrong.

But Curt nodded anyway. “I’d appreciate it. No one will know.”

“We’re spies after all,” Owen replied, the smile back on his face as he hailed a cab for them both.

At Owen’s hotel, they grabbed a drink at the bar, chatting casually about work and books they’d read and movies they’d seen, getting to know each other beyond how perfectly in sync they were in clearing buildings or swiping government documents, savoring the warmth they could feel, a warmth that was for them alone.

Casually, they both left the bar, Curt following Owen to an elevator and then down a corridor to a door which Owen unlocked and entered, immediately sweeping the room to check that it was secure, while Curt watched out down the hallway to make sure they’d remained undetected.

Curt closed the door behind him and turned around to watch Owen finish glancing through windows. The other man’s bowtie was askew and his hair had lost some of its body during their walk outside, but to Curt in that moment he was entirely perfect.

Finally satisfied, Owen turned back to Curt from the middle of the room. “So,” he began but Curt crossed to him in two steps reaching out to place his hand on Owen’s chest and letting his forehead fall against his soulmate’s.

Owen’s eyes closed as he let out a sigh, reaching out for Curt’s chest himself.

“Oh I’ve missed this,” Owen said softly.

“Just this feeling?” Curt asked in a soft voice, his hand increasing the pressure on Owen’s chest for a moment. “Or me?”

Owen’s eyes opened as his face broke into a wide smile. “It’s all of it together, isn’t it?” His words were bright, hopeful, unquestionably happy. “The pounding in my chest, the warmth I feel every time you touch me, how ridiculously beautiful your smile is. There’s no way to separate it. It’s all one, love. You, this, all of it.”

Curt grinned back and finally wrapped his arms around Owen’s neck and kissed him much harder than Owen had kissed him back in his hideout a month ago. Curt had had plenty of time to think about the kiss, and this one was going to be better.

Owen’s arms pulled him tightly around his waist, and now pressed firmly against one another, the pulsing in their chests made one single, constant beat, burning them both from the inside out in a way Curt knew immediately had changed him for the rest of his life. Nothing could compare to this, and he was so incredibly lucky to have found it.

“You’ll stay tonight?” Owen asked as they broke apart, only far enough to whisper in Curt’s ear, unwilling to separate any more than that.

“Nowhere else I’d rather be” Curt replied breathlessly, returning his lips to Owen’s as they fell into bed, surrounding each other in warmth, only laughter and small words of excitement and teasing as they struggled to remove clothing while maintaining as closely entangled as possible.

As they drifted off to sleep hours later, the usual steady beating that lulled Curt to sleep at night was replaced by a constant burning that was somehow even more comforting. With Curt’s bare back pressed up against Owen’s chest and Owen’s arm encircling Curt so his palm rested just at the center of Curt’s chest, Curt felt entirely safe and secure, like he had finally come home.

* * *

Curt ran into Owen periodically over the next few months. Document heist here, foiling an assassination attempt there. They never had much time together, but any chance to steal a kiss or even just stand close to one another was enough. Well, not enough, but beyond anything Curt dared to hope for.

Nearly six months since the single night they had spent together (not that Curt was counting), Curt was pulled from a report he was writing about a recent mission by Cynthia calling him into her office with a new assignment.

“We’re working with MI6 on this, and Owen Carvour requested you specifically, said he wanted ‘the best.’ Fuck knows why he thinks that’s you.” Despite Cynthia’s harsh words, Curt’s heart leapt.

“It’s about time you admitted it Cynthia, even MI6 can see what you have in me,” Curt managed a cocky reply.

Cynthia rolled her eyes. “At least any mission you do with Owen turns out better than when you’re by yourself.”

Curt privately mused that Cynthia was righter than she knew.

“I’ll debrief you later. Now out of my office, and get that report on my desk.”

Curt could barely focus, not the least because the report he was writing detailed his most boring mission to date, but the prospect of seeing Owen soon, of working on an official mission with him, kept him smiling and daydreaming far more than was advisable.

But midway through the afternoon he was suddenly jolted from his musings by the clear sound of Owen’s laughter down the hallway.

At first he thought he must have imagined it with how much he’d been thinking about Owen all afternoon, but then he noticed that the beating in his chest had definitively quickened, he’d just been too distracted to notice.

“I’ll go fetch him then, Cynthia,” Owen’s voice came closer now until his grinning face appeared around Curt’s cubicle,

“Mega,” Owen said in greeting, as though they were mere colleagues, only his eyes telling otherwise. “I admit I’m surprised you weren’t up front to greet me.”

Curt’s face broke into a wide grin as he stood up. “Cynthia didn’t tell me we were meeting here.”

“Why of course, old boy,” Owen replied, his clear excitement barely concealed in his words. “We’re leaving for Mexico from here early tomorrow morning. Makes far more logistical sense this way.”

Curt just smiled at him. “Of course it does. Well, it’s good to see you.”

“You too,” Owen’s voice dropped slightly as he extended a hand, and then pulled Curt into a half hug, the contact brief, casual and friendly in all outward appearance, as though they both weren’t putting every ounce of their spy training to use to hide the utter elation they felt at being back in physical proximity to one another.

Owen inclined his head back to the hallway, as Curt followed him.

“So, our first real joint assignment,” he remarked glancing over at Owen.

Owen’s eyes flashed. “It seems our record has done us some favors.”

Curt let out a breath. “Finally.” The word was quiet, but Owen’s responding nod let him know he’d heard.

Cynthia briefed them both, but reminded Curt before dismissing him that he still needed to finish his report.

“I’ll hang around too, if you don’t mind, Cynthia,” Owen said with a charming smile. “I’ve never made it to your agency headquarters, and I’ll admit I’m a bit curious.”

So Owen ended up leaning against the wall of Curt’s cubicle as he tried to finish his report, pestering Curt to hurry up every few minutes but then asking him questions and distracting him even more, all the while smiling that ridiculous smile that let Curt know that his soulmate was absolutely bothering him on purpose.

Curt tried to be annoyed by it, but he was so pleased that Owen was there that nothing could actually upset him. They rarely had moments like these to tease each other, especially with such low stakes, so if Curt had to bear the brunt of it for now, then it was more than worth it.

The pair left together, no one questioning it since it was common knowledge that Curt had befriended the impressive British agent.

“Do you have a place to stay?” Curt asked casually as they walked to Curt’s car.

Owen glanced up at him reproachfully. “Should I have found a place to stay?”

Curt grinned and shook his head.

Soon enough, they were home.

It hit Curt very suddenly as he set down the takeout they’d grabbed at a restaurant a few blocks away that Owen Carvour was actually in his apartment. His soulmate was here with him where he lived, grabbing plates and silverware from the kitchen as though they did this every day. It was domestic, normal even, and Curt liked it more than he could properly say.

But Curt also realized that he was now perfectly alone with Owen Carvour for the first time in at least a month and he hadn’t even kissed him yet, so that had to be remedied immediately.

He closed the distance between them without any preamble, and Owen quickly set down the dishware to respond with enthusiasm.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Curt said as he broke away from the kiss, his arms still around Owen’s neck, Owen’s around his waist. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’ve missed you too, love,” came Owen’s reply, softly, sweetly, a caress in his voice. “And now we have time.”

“A whole mission together,” Curt replied, nodding. “How in the world did you manage this?”

Owen smirked. “They let me pick anyone I liked, and-”

“And you liked me,” Curt had to interject, grinning.

Owen tossed him a look that was partway between fond and exasperated. “And I naturally asked for the person I had the best repartee with,” Owen corrected, pulling Curt a little closer as he spoke. “We’ve been deemed official inter-agency partners now. It won’t be every mission, but…”

“It’ll be more,” Curt finished Owen’s thought. “Official. It won’t just be chance anymore.”

“Exactly.”

“I’m lucky my soulmate’s so good at manipulating people,” Curt commented, teasing.

Owen rolled his eyes. “We’re good at our jobs, and you know I only work with the best.”

Curt laughed and pulled Owen in to kiss him again.

They spent a few minutes lazily trading kisses, dinner entirely forgotten, relishing in the fact that they actually had a night to themselves, and, more, that they were off-duty until tomorrow morning and didn’t have to be anything other than themselves.

“It’s the accent, isn’t it?” Curt said, pulling back.

Owen stared at him, confused. “What is?”

“That’s how you talked them into this,” Curt explained, his smile wide and amused. “It makes you sound smart, confident. I bet Cynthia’d take all my suggestions if I could give them in your voice. I can be charming when I need to be, but I’ve got nothing on you. I bet you can get anyone to do anything.”

Owen just shook his head and pulled Curt through the door to his bedroom. “As it happens there’s only one person I’d like to do something right now. Do you think it’ll work?”

“Bastard.” Curt shook his head, still grinning, but he was powerless as he kissed Owen desperately, the pair falling back on the bed behind them.

“I take that as a yes then,” Owen commented between heated kisses.

“Shut up,” came the reply.

* * *

The missions were more regular after that, not common, but every three or four months Curt could expect to be paired with Owen on an assignment, and they still ran into each other very occasionally just by chance.

Curt was able to return Owen’s visit to the A.S.S. Headquarters with a visit of his own to Owen’s MI6 office in London on their second mission together after Mexico.

Like Curt’s coworkers, few people at Owen’s office seemed particularly chummy, but one younger agent did come up to talk to them, a girl almost, barely twenty Curt would have guessed. There was something behind her eyes that told Curt that she could handle herself and that her smiley exterior was partly an act, but she was still friendly, asking Curt about his flight and what things were like in America.

“It was nice to meet you, Agent Mega,” she said with a smile as she turned back to her desk. “Sorry to run off, but I can feel my fiancé coming, and I can’t keep him waiting.” She pressed a hand to her chest briefly in explanation and then was gone.

Curt turned to Owen to comment on the younger agent now that they were alone, but Owen wasn’t making eye contact with him. He seemed upset by something.

Owen was similarly distracted and distant through their briefing, leaving Curt to pick up the slack. Curt didn’t mind – he wanted to make a good impression over here after all, and also he knew Cynthia would kill him (maybe for real this time) if he made the US look bad – but it was odd for Owen not to be perfectly at attention, asking questions and making plans as they received a mission.

When they were finally dismissed to rest up before they caught their flight the next morning, Curt could only follow an unspeaking Owen down a road and to an underground station, the other man still silent until 20 minutes later when he nudged Curt’s arm for them to get off.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” Curt finally asked as they walked up another street, presumably to Owen’s apartment.

Owen started as if from a daze and glanced over at Curt, regret filling his face.

“I’m sorry, love,” he apologized quickly. “I’ve been in my head.”

“I’ve noticed. Care to share what’s been bothering you? That’s what I’m here for.”

Instead of sparking a smile as Curt had intended, his words brought back the sullen look to Owen’s face. “I know you are as much as you can, but it isn’t fair is it?”

Before Curt could ask for clarification, Owen pointed over at an old looking building. “That’s me. Come on.”

What had at one time been a decent-sized house had been converted into apartments, Owen’s a single bedroom up on the second floor with a small kitchen and a mismatched, though immaculate, living room suite.

“It’s nice to see you in here,” came Owen’s voice behind Curt who had started looking over Owen’s bookshelves with interest. He sounded far more like himself than he had for hours, and when Curt turned back to him, the smile that he usually wore when Curt was around (and only when Curt was around, he’d begun to discover) had returned, a little dimmer than normal, but visible at least.

“There you are,” Curt said moving over to him to take Owen’s hands in his. “It’s good to have you back. Now would you mind explaining a bit more clearly why you’ve been so moody and sullen all afternoon?”

Owen reached up and brushed back Curt’s hair, a simple gesture, but one that made Curt let out a soft sigh.

“I was just wishing for a simpler life, I suppose,” Owen said finally.

Curt narrowed his eyes. “How so?”

“It’s just what Hadley was saying – the agent we were talking to,” Owen quickly clarified upon seeing Curt’s blank look. “She’s fairly new, could be good, but she has that fiancé so I’m betting she’ll stay out of the field. But did you see her? She felt her soulmate coming, and she could say so, just like that. No one batted an eye. They got to go out for lunch and chat about his normal job and make wedding plans and do whatever it is normal people get to do, and they can hold hands, he can kiss her cheek, maybe more if he can manage it.” Owen glared out the window back in the general direction of the office. “Meanwhile, I’m standing next to my own soulmate, and I can’t say a thing, I can’t do anything. And I never even know when I’m going to get to see you again after we say goodbye.”

Owen looked down at his feet, dejected. “I was just wishing we could be real soulmates, like everyone else.”

Immediately, Curt squeezed Owen’s hands tightly to him, cradling them against his chest and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “Owen, darling, listen. Do you have any idea how lucky we are? So many people never even find their soulmates, and we managed to on my very first mission, the very first time we could have possibly met. Incredible. A miracle even! I know this job can be hard, and it can be lonely, but on my best days I get to do my favorite thing in the world with my absolute favorite person in the world, and what could be better than that?”

A small smile returned to Owen’s face as Curt continued.

“You know me better than any civilian ever could, soulmate or no. It would be torture having to keep this part of myself from my soulmate if they weren’t a spy too, even if I could make plans easier, have regular lunch dates or whatever else normal people do.” Curt waved away the idea. “I’d much rather be entirely myself with my soulmate, with _you_ , just when we can, than pretend all the time.”

Curt shrugged. “And besides, if you weren’t a spy too, I don’t know if I would love you anywhere as much as I do now.”

Owen was beaming at him now, untangling his hands from Curt’s to bring them up to his face, pulling Curt in for a deep kiss.

“You’re right, aren’t you?” Owen shook his head as they broke apart. “I wouldn’t trade a minute of this for the world. I love you too, Curt. Because you’re a spy, and _especially_ because you’re mine.”

“How incredibly lucky for that,” Curt replied and quickly pulled Owen back to him.

* * *

Months passed, years. Missions together and apart. They’d built up a bit of a reputation together, Agents Curt Mega and Owen Carvour, inter-agency partners and the best the United States and the United Kingdom had to offer. Sometimes they stuck to the script, other times they went off-book. Cynthia was never particularly pleased either way, but she hadn’t killed him yet, so Curt counted it all as a success. They had injuries, none life threatening, though Curt had discovered that Owen could be quite overprotective when Curt wasn’t operating at 100%. Like most things about Owen, Curt found this incredibly endearing.

They didn’t make plans – no good spy makes plans; it would be tempting fate – but there was an underlying assumption in everything they did that their future would be a joint one. Their souls had made that decision for them when they’d recognized each other as halves of the same whole, but with every mission, every kiss, every moment they spent together, it became more and more true in every possible way that for Curt there was no future without Owen, no way forward without his soulmate beside him.

But then everything went wrong.

Curt woke up in a Russian facility tied to a chair, a little groggy, but he found himself fighting back a smile almost immediately. He’d gone in alone and already gotten the nuclear weapons blueprints he was there for when he’d been ambushed. Curt had escaped from worse than this before, so he wasn’t too concerned, but that wasn’t why he was happy.

Inside his chest his soul was pulsing rapidly. Owen was there; Curt certainly had no need to worry.

So they had their fun with the Russian guard, Curt teasing his soulmate for his accent which hadn’t improved since the day they’d first met in that old abandoned warehouse, and Owen taking it good naturedly, happily pulling Curt in for a hug just for a moment. Owen talked down Cynthia, and Curt made the executive decision to blow up the entire building, his go-to plan which made Owen shake his head, radiating nothing but fondness as they tried to break their previous record.

But then they were surrounded – a problem, but one Curt’s competitive nature had solved for them by his too-early explosions – and then they were racing away, up a flight of stairs… and then Owen was falling.

Down several stories.

Down further than a person could survive, especially with Russian insurgents closing in as the building collapsed around them.

Curt knew then that if he turned back for Owen’s body, he’d more than likely die too.

And so he did the hardest thing he’d ever had to do and turned and ran, the pulsing in his chest slowing as he left Owen behind, the heat that he’d felt in his soulmate’s presence dissipating.

He was still Agent Curt Mega, but he no longer had a partner.

He no longer had a soulmate.

His chest continued to beat slow and steady as Curt wept.


	2. Loss of Signal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's sad, but it had to be.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

A call came in. Cynthia.

“What are you doing, Mega? You blew up another building? And where are those damn blueprints?”

Curt could only sob into the receiver. “Owen,” he gasped out finally. “Owen didn’t make it.”

There was silence.

“What?” Curt had never heard Cynthia so quiet. “He’s… oh fuck. Shit. Jesus, that’s… God fucking dammit!” Cynthia’s voice increased rapidly in volume.

“The blueprints,” Curt managed, trying in vain to wipe tears from his eyes.

“Fuck, Mega. Just. If you can, but I’m sending extraction over right now, so hang tight, okay? Jesus fucking Christ, I need to talk to MI6. Fuck. Just hold on, Curt, alright? Just hold on.” The line went dead.

But Curt did pull out the blueprints and send the pictures to Barb. He was a spy, and a spy did their job no matter what. And he needed something to distract him, to keep him from looking back at the smoking remains of the facility in the distance. Something to keep him from thinking about Owen.

Extraction did arrive quickly, Barb stepping out of a van almost before it had come to a complete stop. She looked shaken.

“Curt, are you okay?”

Curt just shook her head and passed her the physical blueprints, sitting down on the floor and wrapping his arms around his knees, sparing one last glance out the open door at the smoke he’d caused, at the place where his soulmate lay dead. All because of him.

Curt couldn’t think, couldn’t feel; there was nothing but emptiness in his chest, a gaping wound that no one else could see. From the van Barb ushered him into a plane and then another plane and maybe a third, Curt didn’t know. He tried to shut his eyes and sleep, but he only saw Owen joking that Curt would be the death of him, just as he’d predicted all those years ago their first time working together when Owen said he knew Curt was going to be trouble.

It was all his fault. Curt could blame no one but himself.

From the last plane, they came to a black agency car and then they were at headquarters and Curt was walking into Cynthia’s office. And there was Cynthia, a hint of redness around her eyes, for once at a complete loss for words.

Silence stretched between them.

“I’m sorry about Owen, Curt,” she said finally. “I know you two were close.”

Were. Past tense.

Tears that he’d been working to hold back for hours began to well up in his eyes again.

“I don’t need a full debrief now, but I need the basics. To give MI6.” There was an apology somewhere in the words, but it was still Cynthia: work first.

Curt nodded. This was protocol. His job.

So he gave the basics. How he’d gotten the plans and been cornered. How Owen had found him and how Curt had decided to blow the facility and how Owen had agreed. How they’d nearly been caught again. How they ran. How Owen fell.

“It was my fault,” Curt finished quietly. “My stupid mistake. All my stupid mistakes.”

Cynthia shook her head. “Owen knew the risks. You two had run them together plenty of times. Don’t beat yourself up about this, Curt. This is the job.”

Curt didn’t respond.

“Go home,” Cynthia said finally, her voice nearing something like kindness. “Take some time, whatever you need.”

Curt could only nod and exit.

Outside he didn’t even bother to get his car, he just started walking, a slight chill in the air hitting him, making him feel something, anything, just for a moment.

He walked and he walked and then as tears started to fall, he ran. His apartment was several miles from headquarters, but still he ran. He needed to get back. He needed to be alone to cry, to feel, to exist or to not exist.

He ran all the way to his apartment, up the steps, hurriedly unlocking the door.

And there, thrown over the back of the couch in Curt’s direct line of sight, was a dark jacket. One of Owen’s jackets. He’d left it there a few months before, the last mission they’d officially taken together. Curt had taken to wearing it around the house and out to the store and hadn’t yet decided if he wanted to actually return it to its owner or not. But Curt hadn’t expected to see Owen on this mission so he hadn’t even thought about bringing it.

Thank God.

Curt grabbed the jacket and collapsed onto the floor, sobs wracking his body. This was all he had left of Owen. Curt was alone.

Time passed or didn’t pass, Curt couldn’t say. He paid no attention to the clock on the wall or the beating of his heart. All that mattered was the pulsing in the center of his chest, a homing beacon searching for a carrier that had been sunk, unable to change frequency, now lost with no way back to safety. For the rest of his life, Curt’s soul would remind him that he could never find his soulmate again.

Eventually Curt managed to drift off to sleep, his eyes red and painful, his hands still desperately clutching Owen’s dark jacket. Alone.

* * *

Those early days were marked only by fitful sleep, sometimes interrupted by nightmares of Owen falling or –perhaps worse – happy dreams of nights spent in hotel rooms, promises whispered against skin, a warmth that heated him from the inside out. Those dreams gave Curt a moment of peace when he woke up that just made the horror worse when he remembered what had happened.

He ate little. A few times a knock alerted him to food just outside his door – homemade cookies, bundles of snack foods, once an entire lasagna, still slightly warm. Barb, certainly. Enough to keep him alive.

He drank more than he ate.

Nearly a week had gone by when an envelope slid under his door. Enclosed was a date and time and a plane ticket to London.

Owen’s funeral. They wouldn’t have a body, but it would be something. It would destroy him to be there, but he had to go.

So he showered. He packed. The next morning he drove to the airport – someone had brought his car back to the apartment. He got on a plane. He stared out the window. He tried not to cry.

One action at a time. It was all he could do.

He’d been given the address of a graveyard outside the city. Almost as soon as he reached the gate, a nondescript man in a military uniform approached him and directed him toward a small group of mourners, some in military garb, others in suits.

A general spoke about devotion and duty, of Owen’s care for his country. Empty words from a man who clearly hadn’t known Owen beyond “yes, sir” and “no, sir” and his stellar service record. Nothing was said of his dazzling smile or his glinting eyes or his impressive ego – almost always for show, just to make Curt laugh.

After the man finished speaking, Curt’s eyes fell on an older couple standing at the front of the gathering. Owen’s aunt and uncle certainly. The only family he’d ever talked about. They’d been close once, though much less so with Owen so deeply involved in MI6. Curt needed to talk to them. He’d been the last one to see Owen alive. It was his duty.

Owen approached them carefully. “Excuse me, you’re Owen’s family, aren’t you?”

The pair looked up at him, tears clear in their eyes.

The man nodded. “Yes. Michael and Catherine Andrews. Owen was Catherine’s sister’s son.” Catherine next to him seemed on the verge of tears.

“I’m Curt Mega. I used to work with Owen sometimes. He always spoke fondly of the years he spent with you.” Curt stopped suddenly, realizing that this was the first time he’d talked about Owen since that night in Cynthia’s office.

“Oh, did you know Owen well?” Catherine spoke then. Her eyes were the precise shade of brown as her nephew’s, and they were filled with the same earnestness and passion that Curt loved so well.

Curt managed a nod. “We didn’t see each other often, but we’d become good friends over the years. I was fortunate enough to see him not long before he died.” Owen’s aunt and uncle had no clearances and certainly knew little about how Owen had lived, much less how he died. Curt couldn’t give specifics, but it was important to him that they know that Owen hadn’t been alone at the end.

A flicker of recognition appeared in Catherine’s eyes. “Wait, you’re the American, aren’t you?”

Curt blinked at her wordlessly, but Catherine kept going anyway.

“We really hadn’t gotten to see Owen much at all these last few years,” Catherine explained, “and he almost never talked about work when we did see him – nothing about what all he did or any of his coworkers. He only ever mentioned one friend he had, his best friend, an American who he worked with from time to time.”

Curt let out a shuddering breath. He hadn’t known that Owen had told his family about Curt. He managed a faint smile. “Yeah. That was me.”

Catherine smiled back wistfully. “Owen was always happier if he’d just seen you or was going to see you; he said it made him like his job more when you two got to work together. It seemed like you meant a lot to him.”

A tear slipped down Curt’s cheek. To have Owen’s aunt standing in front of him, telling him how much Owen had cared for him, even if she didn’t know the full extent of their relationship, was too much. Curt had meant a lot to Owen, just as Owen had meant everything to Curt. What had been a simple fact of life for Curt for so long was now painful, devastating.

Curt’s eyes dropped to his feet. “He meant a lot to me too,” Curt replied quietly. “I always felt lucky when I got to spend some extra time with Owen. He was… he was the best man I’ve ever known. I doubt I’ll ever meet a better one.” He sniffled, trying to regain his composure, still staring at the ground.

Suddenly, a hand found his and grasped it tightly.

Curt looked up to see Catherine staring at him sadly, tear tracks across her face.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Curt,” she spoke softly, her words broken but clear.

Curt squeezed her hand back and nodded. “I’m sorry for yours.”

Curt dropped the hand of the last flesh and blood relative of his soulmate and stood up straight, wiping at his eyes as covertly as possible.

“Thank you so much for coming today, Curt,” Michael spoke again now, holding his hand out for Curt to shake. “It means so much to us. And I know it would have meant a lot to Owen.”

Curt nodded again and then turned and walked back the way he’d come.

“Agent Mega.”

Curt looked up to see a man in a dark suit who he recognized quickly. Owen’s old boss. Curt didn’t even know his name, but he’d been briefed in his office a couple times and through Owen they’d had a kind of working relationship.

“These are for you.” The other man held out an envelope and a wooden box.

“What?” Curt stared at the unfamiliar items.

“We cleared out Carvour’s apartment,” the man explained in an even, almost clipped voice. “He’d left instructions that a few items be returned to his aunt and uncle, but he specifically asked that you have this,” he extended the hand with the box. “And these,” he gestured with the envelope, “are personal items belonging to you left in Carvour’s apartment. Letters or some such.”

Curt took the objects with almost a reverence. “And everything else?” he asked, looking up.

“Property of the agency,” the man replied. Then he softened slightly for a moment. “Thank you for coming today. Owen would have wanted you here.” He took a step back. “Perhaps we’ll meet again, Agent Mega.” And with a nod he left Curt.

Curt walked over to a bench, his hands shaking as he looked at what Owen had left for him.

He opened the wooden box and immediately let out an involuntary laugh at its contents. Enshrined in red velvet was a medal of commendation that Owen had won for a mission they’d run into each other on two years prior. Curt remembered vividly because while Owen had won an award, Curt had been yelled at by Cynthia for a full hour because he’d let the British agency keep the plans he and Owen had stolen together. Owen had gotten there first so it was only fair, and MI6 had shared the plans almost immediately, so Curt felt no harm had been done. Cynthia, naturally, disagreed, and Curt had been forced to sit through her longest lecture to date. Nevertheless, Curt didn’t regret any of it; Owen had pulled him into a dark alleyway and kissed him breathless on their way out of the building, just because he couldn’t wait any longer, and that was enough for Curt.

Curt smiled and shook his head even as tears ran lightly down his cheeks. Leave it to Owen to make him laugh even after he was gone.

Then he turned to the envelope. Inside were a few scraps of paper, some folded into cards. Curt remembered each one.

He and Owen never wrote to each other, discounting it immediately as an unnecessary risk since letters could be intercepted and anything put down in writing could too easily be used as evidence. But on each occasion that Curt had stayed at Owen’s apartment, he had left behind a note, simple things, thank yous, the smallest mementos of their time together, but all signed with Curt’s name, and all having clearly been kept somewhere together by Owen.

Among the cards was another slip of paper, unsigned, really just a scrap torn from a piece of hotel stationary.

 _Back alley, five minutes,_ read the note that Curt knew had once been slipped into Owen’s back pocket at a gala in Vienna. It looked in every way to be the request of a spy meetup, especially for whichever MI6 agent had found it and matched its handwriting to Curt. In reality, however, the meetup had been much less professional in nature, though at the end he and Owen _had_ talked about their mission for ten seconds so it almost counted.

Owen had saved it all this time. Meaningless to anyone but them, and even among their years of history together it was such a small moment. But here it was, one of the only tangible pieces that remained of their life together. Evidence that, yes, Curt had pulled Owen away from an actual mission to make out with him just out of sight of a hotel service entrance. Owen had been posing as a guest and Curt as a waiter, and Curt couldn’t resist. And because Owen had saved this scrap of paper, Curt would never forget.

Curt put the papers back into the envelope and looked back to where Owen’s grave marker would be, just one monument in a field of military and civil service dead. He clutched the envelope to his chest, right to where his soul continued to beat, lost, trying to get back to Owen again.

“Thank you, love,” he said quietly, Owen’s old endearment falling off his tongue easily.

He got up from the bench and left.

* * *

While Curt’s time with Owen had been most easily measured in moments – moments with Owen, important and precious, standing out sharply from his usual day-to-day, Curt’s new life without Owen shifted past in a blur with little change, only occasional moments he could remember, but mostly a nothingness he wanted to forget.

He did remember his first day back at headquarters for a more formal inquiry into Owen’s death, attended both by Cynthia and the same MI6 head who had given Curt Owen’s personal items.

Curt had managed to remain dispassionate, answering questions when asked, his eyes staying dry, his voice only breaking twice, the words all feeling empty in his mouth. Yes, it was his fault he’d gotten caught and Owen had to rescue him. Yes, it was his fault the building blew up. Yes, it was his fault Owen slipped. Yes, it was his fault that Owen’s body had not been recovered.

But both the A.S.S. and MI6 determined that Owen had undertaken risks at his own peril and that Curt had made the correct call in not going back for Owen’s body. Better one agent survive than they both die, Owen’s British boss said, his eyes downcast but hardened.

Curt didn’t quite agree, but he nodded all the same and left the conference room.

“I need to take a personal leave of absence,” Curt said a few minutes later standing inside Cynthia’s office. “Indefinite. I… I’m not sure I can ever come back here. Not after this.”

Cynthia sighed. “We’ll see, Mega. Have six months, and then we’ll reassess.”

Curt knew this was the best he was going to get and there was no point in arguing, so he just nodded and left.

He spent most of his time in his apartment. Away from the reminders of his old life, Curt could pretend he lived in a world where he’d never had a soulmate, where he’d never been a spy. Owen only existed there in small ways. His jacket hung always from Curt’s bedpost, unless Curt was wearing it, burrowing himself in the feeling of his lost soulmate. Curt also had his own notes from Owen, thank yous from when Owen had stayed with him, each signed _Yours,_ or _Always,_ or _Until we meet again,_ with Owen’s name in his immaculate handwriting, each letter beautiful, perfect.

Curt’s favorite was a get-well card, the only piece of literal mail Owen had ever sent him. Curt had been injured on a solo mission, not mortally, but enough to be laid up for a few weeks while his broken arm and the stab wound in his side healed. Owen had been informed since Curt had been due to meet him for a joint mission directly after his botched one and the agency had to sub in a different operative.

Curt, naturally, had been more upset about missing time with Owen than his actual injury, but then he’d gotten Owen’s card in the mail.

_So sorry to hear about your injury, but very glad to know you’re alright.  
_ _Please be more careful in the future.  
_ _Hope to see you soon. Work isn’t the same without you.  
  
_ _Now, as ever, yours,_

_Owen_

Curt could read between the lines. Owen had been worried about him. Owen missed him. Enough, apparently to risk an actual letter in the mail.

A couple months later when Curt was better and back in the field, Owen had unexpectedly turned up at the shady local government office Curt was staking out, not even bothering with a hello before he’d wrapped his arms around Curt’s waist and buried his face in Curt’s neck.

“I take it you were worried?” Curt had quipped with a smirk that couldn’t hide his pure affection for Owen.

Owen had just shaken his head and pressed a quick kiss to Curt’s lips. “Don’t you dare do that again, love. You aren’t allowed to get injured when you’re by yourself and I can’t come save you.”

Curt had carded his hand though Owen’s hair. “I’ll do my best. I’m sorry for worrying you. But thank you for the note.”

Owen had flushed at that. “I felt it would be permissible, given the circumstances.”

“It was just fine,” Curt had confirmed with a smile. “I liked knowing you were thinking of me.”

Owen had sighed and stared into Curt’s eyes. “Don’t know you I’m always thinking of you?”

* * *

After those six months, Curt requested a further extension to his leave of absence, which Cynthia granted, her voice on the phone still as close to understanding as Cynthia ever got.

Unable to remain cooped up in his apartment, Curt took off to his mom’s safehouse. He’d stopped in once to tell her about Owen a few weeks after it had happened, but he hadn’t found it in him to stay for longer than a night. With his mom, Owen was just a friend, and with the loss still so raw, Curt needed to be by himself where he could let Owen be everything he’d ever been.

But now, months on, Curt could manage it. His mom did his laundry and made him food and fussed over his hair and talked enough for both of them that Curt didn’t have to say much.

She’d always liked Owen, Curt had known that, but he especially knew it now because she kept talking about what a sweet boy he’d been, such a good friend for Curt, so smart and such a good influence.

Understatement of the year.

Owen had only ever visited twice, taking Curt’s bed while Curt stayed on the floor – at least as far as Ma Mega knew.

Once at dinner she’d asked Owen if he’d found his soulmate yet which had made Owen choke on his chicken as Curt ducked his head away from the table so his mom wouldn’t see him laughing.

But Owen had liked Curt’s mom, had told him one night that he liked that Curt had someone else looking out for him if Owen ever couldn’t.

Curt had silenced Owen with a kiss before they could go further down the road of Curt existing in a world without Owen, but now that this was Curt’s reality, he realized that Owen had been right. Curt was very lucky to have his mother to look out for him right now.

The anniversary of Owen’s death passed for Curt in a bar, alone. He didn’t want any company; he couldn’t imagine ever wanting any company. His chest kept beating, slow and steady, and Curt drank until he couldn’t remember when the beats had ever been close together.

Cynthia started dropping hints that it was time for him to come back. Curt didn’t agree.

Approaching two years since Curt had left, Cynthia’s hints became more aggressive. Curt started giving occasional demonstrations to new recruits. If any of them asked why he was out of the field or, worse, mentioned Owen by name, Curt was liable to abandon training and not turn up for at least a week. But it was progress of a sort.

Usually Curt had a few glasses of something at the end of the day just to keep Owen out of his thoughts. Sometimes the end of the day was closer to 10AM, but Curt didn’t care too much. He started growing out a beard. It didn’t matter; nothing really mattered.

Curt couldn’t go back. That’s what he told himself every week. Sometimes Barb would run into him in the hallway and start telling him about new gadgets she was working on and something in Curt would itch to test them out, just for a moment, just until he remembered.

Curt’s entire professional career as a spy, since his first mission, since he’d finished training, had been tied up with Owen. He’d learned so much just from watching Owen work. He’d pushed himself to be better to compete with him, to make sure that Owen was always impressed with him, to make sure that Owen was proud to have him as his soulmate. On European operations, there was always the smallest possibility that he would run into Owen, and just that potential gave Curt the edge he’d needed to become the best spy the United States had.

But he’d never been a spy without Owen. He’d never even considered it. He couldn’t.

Cynthia’s patience had fully run out by the time Curt had been out of the field for two and a half years. It made Curt feel better almost, like things were back to normal, even if they never could be. He didn’t need to be coddled. He’d lost his favorite person in the world, but spies died every day and Cynthia of all people knew that better than anyone.

Curt still wasn’t going back in the field, but he could get yelled at just the same as he could in the old days.

And so it went. Month after month. A third year.

Curt still felt the pain of losing Owen deep in his chest, right where his soul kept searching for a man who would never return.

But, little by little, Curt was healing too. A lot of his memories of Owen were too hard to even think about, let alone say out loud, even if he’d been able to. But he started telling mission stories to some recruits. He’d always say “my partner” instead of Owen’s name, but it was something. It was a way of remembering that made Curt smile or feel pride in the good he and Owen had done together.

He let go of some of the sadness. It was there if he ever pressed too hard, but it wasn’t constant. Tragedy had morphed into tragic backstory, essential if he ever let anyone get close to him again, not that he was planning on that ever happening, but a footnote for anyone just meeting him for the first time.

He was Curt Mega, one of the greatest spies to ever live. He didn’t have to be Curt Mega, Owen Carvour’s partner who was responsible for his death.

Little by little, Curt realized that he did miss working in the field. He missed the adrenaline of a mission, even a mission that didn’t include Owen.

He’d never been a spy without Owen before. But maybe, just maybe, he could try.

And so, little by little, Curt decided he was going back. He was going to be a spy again. For Owen and for himself.


	3. Reacquisition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last scene here was what I most needed to write when I had the idea for this fic, so I hope you guys like it!
> 
> Thanks for reading! Enjoy!

To say his first mission back in the field had gone poorly would have been an understatement, but even Cynthia’s increasingly violent attempts on his life didn’t faze him nearly as much as what he had felt when he went to retrieve the bomb.

For the first time in four years, for the first time since Owen had slipped over the edge of the staircase, the pulsing in Curt’s chest had come back. He’d felt it as clearly as if Owen had been in the same room as him, the warmth, the beats picking up as he got closer… But closer to who? Owen wasn’t there. There was just that bomb salesman worrying over his wife’s anniversary pastries, a cold-blooded murderer who Cynthia had informed Curt was called “The Deadliest Man Alive,” and then the mysterious Russian woman who’d taken the bomb right out of Curt’s hands and made him look like a fool.

He’d never heard of anyone having multiple soulmates, though he supposed it could be possible. But one of _those_ three people? No. It had to be some kind of mistake, never mind the fact that souls were supposed to be infallible.

There was no one for Curt to ask about it though, even if he wanted to. Cynthia would murder him for real for about a hundred reasons if he confessed any of this to her.

A spy wasn’t supposed to worry about a soulmate on a mission.

"Stay focused. Don’t get distracted. Don’t you dare screw this up, Mega. Nothing is more important than the mission, do you hear me? _Nothing."_ Curt could practically hear Cynthia yelling orders at him from before his first solo operation.

Curt had broken those rules more times than he could count with Owen, starting on that very solo mission when they’d first met, but it hadn’t mattered before. Curt had been a great spy, even with a soulmate to think about. He could do it all, and he could do it even better when Owen was beside him.

But now Curt was struggling enough with being back in the field as it was; he didn’t know how to deal with the added pressure of his own soul trying to alert him to the impossible presence of a man Curt had watched die.

It had to be some kind of false alarm, his body tricking itself into thinking that Owen was back since Curt was back in the field. It didn’t make a ton of sense, but his and Owen’s situation had never been typical.

Whatever the explanation, Curt couldn’t dwell on it. He had to fix his mistakes. He had to stay focused. He had a job to do.

* * *

But it happened again. Back with the Russian woman, Tatiana he’d discovered, the Deadliest Man Alive, a whole group of actual Nazis… and for some reason his soul had decided that Owen was there too.

It was like some sick joke, Curt tied up in a chair again feeling the pulsing in his chest that should only ever have been comforting, but all it did was remind him of what he’d lost, why he’d given up this life. And then when the pulsing grew faster as the Deadliest Man Alive started to torture him, it was all Curt could do to hold back tears at the thought of his soulmate. The torture his own body was putting him through was so much worse than any physical pain the other man was causing him.

But with Tatiana’s unexpected rescue, Curt getting shot, and all of the ensuing commotion through the planning and the gala, the pulsing in his chest settled back to normal and Curt put it out of his mind until he and Tatiana ended up at his mother’s safehouse.

There, in the silence, the lack of action, it all came back. And he told Tatiana about his fears. About Owen dying. About how he couldn’t save him.

“And I just keep… being reminded of him,” Curt settled on, unable to make eye contact with the woman next to him. “Like the universe is laughing at me, reminding me about how I’m going to fail. Like I failed him. And he was… he was important to me. The most important thing to me. And I couldn’t even keep _him_ safe.”

“Were you…?” Tatiana’s question remained unfinished.

Curt couldn’t hide it anymore. What did it matter? He pressed a hand to the center of his chest. “Yeah.”

Tatiana inhaled sharply. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I can’t imagine facing such a loss.”

“And now every time we’re in danger, it keeps feeling like he’s around again. The beats start picking up like they always used to with him. It’s mocking me, Tatiana. The universe or my body or something.” Curt shook his head helplessly.

“I’ve never heard of a soul doing such a thing after a partner died,” Tatiana said slowly, her brow furrowed.

Curt threw up his hands. “Well, it’s just me then! Because I watched him fall. I’ve been grieving him for four years. And he isn’t here anymore.”

The admission, out loud, to another person, was too much for him. Tears finally spilled from his eyes, Curt’s shoulders shaking as he sobbed into his hands.

But then, for the first time, someone was there. Tatiana put her arm around him, hugging him toward her, and Curt found himself burying his face into his shoulder as she patted his back.

He’d never had anyone to hold him as he cried before, not like this, not knowing why losing Owen had been so impossible for him to bear.

“It’s alright, Curt. It’s okay.” Tatiana’s words were soothing, and Curt’s sobs began to lessen.

He felt safe in a way he hadn’t since the last hug Owen had given him in that warehouse. It wasn’t the embrace of a soulmate, but it was something close.

Finally Curt pulled back, wiping his eyes with his sleeves. He looked up at the woman next to him. “Thank you, Tatiana. I… I never really got a chance to talk to anyone about this before. And… and I think it helped.”

Tatiana smiled almost sadly at him. “I’m glad. It’s always good to have a friend to talk to, you know? Even if Owen is no longer here, you can still have a friend.”

Curt allowed himself a smile. “Yeah. A friend.”

For the first time in four years, Curt felt like maybe he could be whole again someday, not just the rough approximation of himself he'd become. Friends. That was a path forward if he wanted to take it. He could have friends.

* * *

So they planned. They prepared. They went on their mission and once again Curt felt the pulsing in his chest return.

Tatiana glanced over at him when he let out a small gasp, and he nodded back to confirm that yes, the pulsing in his chest had returned. She looked troubled by the revelation.

And then everything suddenly, brutally, made sense and any hope Curt had felt for his future shattered around him.

The Deadliest Man Alive had been Owen all along.

Owen who wasn’t dead. Owen who had been working for a different agency for years, one with an evil sounding name and a worse sounding mission. Owen who had killed several people before Curt’s eyes and presumably many more away from them. Owen who was taunting him with sneers and putdowns as if Curt was scum under his boot and not his soulmate and best friend of years. Owen whose eyes were dark and angry and malevolent where they should have been kind and lighthearted and teasing.

Owen who wanted him dead when all Curt had wanted for the last four years was Owen back again.

Owen ran and Curt followed. They fought each other, they hurled insults, Owen’s dead eyes and harsh words hurting more than any blow could.

And all along, Curt’s soul was pulsing faster and faster, thrilled to be back with its other half, ecstatic at the possibility, completely ignorant of the fact that the body and mind possessing said other half hated Curt with every fiber of their being.

Finally, Owen and Curt were left on a staircase leading down from the rooftop of a distant warehouse.

Owen lectured him about his trust in government agencies, his determination to protect the world’s secrets, his blind faith in his own abilities, in truth and in justice.

But when Curt asked about them, about what they’d been to each other, he saw the smallest waver, the slightest hesitation in Owen’s façade, and as Owen told him to move on, Curt used the moment to shoot Owen’s gun out of his hand.

Owen looked scared for the first time, but Curt ignored it. His soul just wanted to be near Owen, and Curt needed answers.

“You’re my soulmate, Owen Carvour,” Curt said deliberately, two steps below Owen, his gun trained on the other man. “That meant something to you for years. You told me it meant everything.”

Owen’s eyes stared down at him, dark and empty. “My soul knows better than to go looking for something that doesn’t matter. I have no _soulmate_ ,” he spat the word out like he was disgusted by the mere idea. “Least of all you.”

Curt shook his head. “That isn’t possible. You can’t just get rid of it. You can’t just turn it off. It’s a part of you, Owen. I should know; I’ve been reminded of it every single moment of every day for the last four years.”

But Owen just stared at him defiantly.

So Curt took another step and placed his hand on the center of Owen’s chest.  
  
Nothing.

No heat. No pulse. Just Owen’s heart beating along, soft in comparison to the almost forceful beats Curt had always felt when he held a hand to his soulmate’s chest. It was like Owen had cut out his soul and replaced it with emptiness, with silence, with ice.

The pulsing in Curt’s own chest that had been increasing with every step Curt took began to stutter as if confused, as though it knew that Owen’s soul should be answering back like it always had but that somehow, impossibly, it wasn’t anymore.

“See?” Owen asked smugly. His eyes flared in the darkness, but nothing like how they always had for Curt. Within them was a wicked triumph that Curt had never seen before. Even when taunting criminals, there had always been an almost jovial twinkle in the corners of Owen’s eyes if only for Curt. This Owen was empty. He wasn’t Curt’s soulmate.  
  
“But don’t you remember how we were together?” Curt countered, his voice unsteady now, his hand almost gripping Owen’s shirt. “Don’t you remember how it felt? How wonderful it was to be reunited after months apart? How warm you were? How happy? Don’t you miss it? Even the smallest part of you? Look at me and tell me that you don’t want this back, even just for a moment.”

With that desperate plea, Curt stared into the eyes that had once brought him such happiness one last time, hoping, praying for a glimpse of his soulmate within this man who had his face and his body, who was speaking with his voice, but who was not the man Curt had fallen in love with all those years before.

Nothing.

Owen’s eyes glared back at him, filled with only hate and contempt.

Nothing.

His soulmate was gone for good. Curt was more alone than he had ever been.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

But then, somewhere in Owen’s eyes, Curt saw the briefest flash of recognition, of knowing, of hope. For just a split second, it was his Owen standing in front of him once again.

Beat. Beat.

Two slow pulses came from beneath Curt’s outstretched palm.

Owen’s soul was reaching out to him, slowly, yes, but it was there.

Curt inhaled quickly, keeping his eyes locked on Owen’s, trying to bring back the man he knew, the man he needed.

“I loved you, Owen, from the moment I met you,” Curt spoke clearly, evenly.

Beat. Beat.

“I loved you more with every mission, every time I saw you laugh, every time I saw you smile. Every time I saw you cry. You were mine alone to love, and I loved you.”

Beat. Beat.

There was more in Owen’s eyes now, hurt, confusion – not love, but no longer hate.

Curt kept going. “I thought about you every moment you were gone, every moment after I thought I had killed you. I loved you every day I spent without you, every beat of my soul when you weren’t there.”

Beat. Beat.

The slightest hint of warmth spread beneath Curt’s fingers, and he held on tighter.

“And even now, even after all of this, I love you still.”

Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat.

The pulses were quicker now, closer in pace to those in Curt’s own chest, but Owen broke eye contact then, looking off into the distance, unable to handle Curt’s gaze.

“You can’t love me, Curt.” His words were far less sure than they’d been before. “You left me. You _killed_ me.” Owen looked back at him then, his face pained.

“And that’s haunted me every day since,” Curt replied, a tear slipping down his cheek. “You were dead. I watched you fall. It was all my fault, but there was nothing I could do.” He shrugged hopelessly. “We’re spies, Owen. That was always the end that was coming to us, wasn’t it? No matter what future we ever hoped we’d get. I’d just thought I would go first is all. You were always the better spy.”

But Owen shook his head. “You may have loved me once, but you can’t love me anymore. Not now. Not after this.”

Curt released his hold on Owen’s shirt and lowered his gun, instead moving up the last step so he and Owen were standing as close together as possible, chest to chest, Curt’s eyes locked on Owen’s.

Curt waited a moment, then he felt it. The constant warmth, no more pulsing, just a continuous hum, he and Owen connected just as they had been before.

“We belong together, Owen.” Curt’s words were soft, filled with almost breathless emotion. “We always have. We always will. No matter where you go or I go, if you flee and try to take down everything we fought for, if I kill you right where we stand, no matter what, my soul will never stop searching for you. Every moment for the rest of my life my soul will call out for you. Isn’t it better if yours can answer mine? Isn’t that worth it?” More tears flowed down Curt’s face.

He stepped back to the stair below Owen.

Neither of them moved.

Then Owen reached out tentatively. Curt’s fingers tensed around the trigger of his gun, but Owen just laid his hand in the center of Curt’s chest, exhaling softly.

“I never thought I’d feel this ever again,” Owen said softly, almost a caress in his voice. “I didn’t think I wanted to. I thought it was gone.”

Curt shook his head. “It’s yours. If you still want it.”

Owen looked up at him, something new in his eyes now. Hope. “For how long?” he asked.

Curt reached out his hand to Owen’s chest, mirroring him. “Forever,” he said simply.

And then Owen took a single step down, and his lips found Curt’s.

Curt’s gun tumbled from his hand and onto the landing below them as he wrapped his arms around Owen’s neck where they fit just as perfectly as they always had, Owen’s settling at his waist. Their kisses were frantic, passionate, intoxicating. It was as though Curt hadn’t been breathing for four years and had suddenly taken in a mouthful of air. It was better than the finest wine, the most expensive whiskey. He had never experienced something so perfect. Or, at least he hadn’t in a very long time.

“I’ve missed you so much,” Curt broke out, burying his face into the crook of Owen’s neck and holding on tighter.

Owen breathed into him. “I’ve missed you too, love,” he said quietly. “I just hadn’t quite realized how much.”

Curt pulled back to kiss him swiftly. “I love you, Owen Carvour. I always have. I always will.”

Owen just shook his head, a grin spreading across his face that Curt had been convinced he’d never see again. “I did say from the beginning that you’d be trouble for me, didn’t I?” He brushed his fingertips lightly along Curt’s cheek. “I love you too, Curt Mega. I was a fool to think I could ever stop.”

Curt knew there were many more conversations they needed to have, hard, difficult conversations. They were both so different from when they’d last spoken; entire lives had passed by in the interim. Owen was a wanted man working for an evil organization. Curt was a recently reactivated spy nowhere near up to his old standard. They weren’t partners anymore. But Curt also knew that there was a world to save and that he and Owen were going to have to come to an understanding about how to do it.

None of it would be easy. Not even close.

But Curt was sure of three things: Owen was here, Owen was his soulmate, and, most importantly, Owen loved him.

And, for now, Curt didn’t need any more than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr @parksanddownton603 :)


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